Endgame
by ush 3
Summary: The climb was long, but Ysmir had climbed longer. He encountered a vampire, driven mad with power and the age, but Ysmir had fought harder. The cold bit, but the cold that Ysmir knew had bitten all the harder and all the stronger. The Ebony Warrior awaited...


The climb was long, but Ysmir had climbed longer. He encountered a vampire, driven mad with power and the age, but Ysmir had fought harder. The cold bit, but the cold that Ysmir knew had bitten all the harder and all the stronger.

The man in the armour was waiting. The Ebony Man stood, surrounded by the bones and bodies of his previous challengers. Man, beast, mer. All were represented in their ultimate failure to kill the warrior. Ysmir stood before him, looking into his eyes. The final challenger raised his hands to his head, sharp and horned, crafted with black metals and the souls of Daedra, and he removed the helmet.

"I am Garzog Gro-Gaferd," the Orc said. His black beard was trimmed neatly, as was his hair, into a ponytail. "I have been called many names. When I began this journey, I was Garzog Gro-Urag. I had lived my life an Orc, trained to smith and fight. When I was twenty-eight years old, I passed illegally into Skyrim from the Provence of Morrowind. I went through a settlement called Darkwater Crossing."

The Orc sat on a boulder, and the Ebony Warrior did the same. Twenty paces seperated them.

"I was captured by the Imperial Legion, knocked out. I awoke on a cart with three others, three Nords. Two, I learned, were Stormcloak rebels. One was Ulfric Stormcloak himself, his mouth bound to stop him using the Thu'um."

Garzog took out a pipe and began to stuff tobacco into it.

"We were brought to Helgan. My name wasn't on the list. I remember that so clearly."

Garzog snapped his fingers. A single ember of flame appeared, and the Orc lit the pipe. The long draw lasted nearly a minute, but the Warrior said nothing.

"One man tried to run. A horsethief. Rorkir? Lorkir? Lokir! That was it. Lokir of Rorikstead..."

The large Orc stuck the end of the pipe in his mouth and put away his box of tobacco.

"The dragon, Alduin, the world-eater, first son of Akatosh... he appeared as the executioner raised the axe to me. He shouted, a terrible sound, and then he looked at me. Right in the eye. All he needed to do was burn me there, and his troubles would have been over. He would have destroyed us all with ease. Instead..."

Garzog shook his head. The clouds began to part, the sun moving towards his feet.

"I ran. Sought refuge with the surviving Stormcloaks. I nearly died so many times that day... But I escaped. Joined with an Imperial, Hadvar, and we ran. Fought through the Stormcloaks, escaped the caves. We headed to a small village. Riverwood. Later it was burnt to the ground by three dragons, none trying to kill the humans within, but..."

The sun began to travel up his legs.

"The rest of my story is legend. But this is not a telling of it. This is a confession, should I never get to give another..."

The Warrior nodded once. Garzog continued.

"I've made mistakes. I've made judgements I had no place to make. I changed the course of history. Of all this, I am guilty. I went mad with power. Daedra sought to influence and control me, some of power I couldn't even imagine. And I thought myself better than them, too. Malacath, who I know now protected me. Sheograth, who influenced me. Molag Bal, who's mace I used before I lost it on the Throat of the World in my battle with my mentor, Paathurnax... all of these and more."

The Orc fell silent for a time before continuing.

"I fought for the Legion in the war. Ended it, some say, with the final strike of my sword on Ulfric Stormcloak's throat while he lay, broken and defenseless. Rose to the rank of Legate and used my influence to name Balgruuf the Greator as High King of Skyrim over Elisif the Fair. But I have many secrets. Too many."

His heavy sigh darkened his features.

"I killed the Emperor and the man who ordered him killed. I led the Dark Brotherhood through what should have been it's utter destruction and I was named it's Listener."

The Orc laughed suddenly.

"I chose power time and time again. I slaughtered a good man, a priest of Mara, in exchange for more of it. I did the bidding of Molag Bal and I destroyed the only shackle left on Clavicus Vile because I wasn't strong enough for my liking. I could have killed any living thing on Nirn but I demanded more and so I sided with the Daedra time and time again..."

His voice was rising, growing hysterical.

"I gave my friends to Boethiah and I murdered them to satisfy the need of Mephala and I ate the flesh of the innocent, murdered, sentient beings because Namira compelled me to. I demanded so much power until I couldn't even see my final goal ahead of me. I demanded and gave my soul to so many creatures of evil until my body was indestructible and my hollow soul was _gone_. And I couldn't even stop. I fell into the abyss, I tumbled again and again until I was committing murders for pieces of gold or ore or food or because I bloody fucking _could_."

The Orc was gasping, sweat dripping down his skull. He suddenly seemed drained of energy, sitting far back.

"I changed. By the Divines I changed. Hircine will come to my one day and demand my soul in return for what I have taken from him, but I didn't bow to that Prince. I did right by the wrongs I did for Sanguinne, as petty as those were. I destroyed the last remnants of power in this Provence that the Hags had and when the opportunity came... I chose not to blot out the sun and become immortal. I die a mortal death."

A silence fell between them. Garzog sighed and put his pipe away, but stayed sitting.

"My mother, Kraveth, found me after. Dragged what remained of my soul into the light. Led me to my father, an Altmer I had never before met. Along with my younger sister, we destroyed many Thalmor seats of power. But I lost all three within a week."

The Orc's voice was slow, steady and full of sadness.

"My mother died first, sliced down in an alley by half a dozen attackers. She was the greatest smith of her age. My soul of a dragon comes from her side of my blood. And she died for nothing. In an alley, like a leper. Like an animal.

"My sister fell while I watched, unable to stop it. Made to fight in a duel of magic, she was torn apart. Her body was unrecognizable after. And my father died when we fought her killer, thrown through a wall by the same magic. My other sister, his daughter with his Altmer wife, joined me soon after to get a final revenge at my side. But she has returned to Alinor. I hope, should I survive this, that I am not the one to land the final blow on her in the coming war."

Now the Orc stood, his back strong and his eyes straight ahead, focusing on the Ebony Warrior. He put his helmet back on.

"But I have more trials to survive still before then. Raise your weapon."

The man did, drawing an ebony sword. Garzog looked it with narrowed eyes before drawing his own weapon. Similar in make, Garzog's sword was touched with the heart of a strong Daedra. The Orc had a buckler shield of the same make, while the Ebony Warrior's was a plate shield made of ebony.

They moved at the same time. Garzog crouched and charged while the Warrior stayed tall. They crashed into each other, struggling to bring their weapons up. Garzog nearly did, but he was tripped and stumbled back down the mountain, rolling. Disorientated, the Orc looked up just in time to see his opponent's foot catch him on the face. The strong helmet took much of the blow, but Garzog was still rolled onto his back.

The Ebony Warrior brought his sword above his head, the tip pointed down. As the blade fell, Garzog got his shield up and twisted it, catching the sword in the sharp points along the rim of the metal. The Warrior tried for another kick the head, but Garzog smashed his powerful fist with his sword in it's grasp into the Warrior's knee. The huge human took two steps back and Garzog was up again, pressing his advantage.

The Warrior struck high and Garzog's back twisted away, pulling him just out of reach. His own sword flashed, somehow parried by the ebony sword's tip.

Garzog punched out with his shield and was rebuffed by the Warrior's own metal. He tried to bash into him with his shoulder but the Warrior sidestepped. They were now on equal footing. The Warrior struck out at waist height and Garzog caught it on his sword's guarded pommel, deflecting it. The Warrior was much taller than the huge Orc, but their strength was similar due to Garzog's long hours on the forge.

They were fast, strong and tall. It was a battle of titans. A battle of giants. A battle of gods.

And Garzog was losing. The Last Dragonborn took a step back and shouted suddenly, the fire shout's words being turned to flame even as the Orc spoke them, the roar of fire obscuring the words themselves. A huge burst coated the Warrior but when it faded he didn't even seem singed. Garzog swore to himself, inhaling deeply. The Greybeards had trained him to shout faster than any other person conceivably could.

To Garzog's eternal shock, the Warrior responded. "FUS RO!" was the shout. Not as powerful as the full form, which Garzog used, but it still sent the heavy Orc stumbling back. The Warrior tried with an upwards strike, but Garzog managed to get his shield up to stop it rising.

Garzog blocked another high strike, ducked under a third and then he shouted.

"FUS RO DAH!" the Orc roared. The Warrior was sent flying, head over heels, tumbling down the mountainside. Garzog went after him, at speed. The Warrior took advantage of this, rising and spearing Garzog around the middle.

The Orc barely had the mind to cast a spell, summoning an old ally. The Dark Brotherhood spectre, laughing his deep Imperial laugh, flew out of the Void and stabbed the Warrior in the back. The Warrior's back arched and he twisted sharply, catching the spectre around the midsection and sending him tumbling away. By the time he had risen and charged again, the Warrior was ready. One strike disarmed him. Another took the shade's head off and the body fell apart.

But it was all Garzog needed. The Orc came in, hacking downwards. The Warrior blocked it and, without warning, stabbed him in the leg.

Garzog went down, howling, magic already tingling across his body. The Warrior stabbed him again, this time pinning his sword-arm to the ground. Garzog dropped his shield, ripped out his dagger and stuck it into the Warrior's knee, just under the armor. The Warrior howled in pain and fell back, his wounded leg giving out under him.

Garzog had the advantage. Rising, the Orc took his sword in his left hand and attacked, slashing at the Warrior in every way he could. The Warrior's sword was on the bloody snow where it had fallen, so the man pulled the Blade of Woe from his knee and stabbed Garzog in the stomach.

The Orc froze, the Warrior pulling out the blade and trying again. The armor deflected this one, and the moment gave Garzog the chance he needed.

He beserked, his blue eyes becoming bloodshot and his mouth opening in a howl. He moved into the Warrior and ripped the helmet off him. A Redguard looked back, stunned at the sudden strength. Garzog grabbed the Blade of Woe which he had pulled from the dying Astrid's hands and stabbed forwards suddenly with both his dagger and his sword.

The Ebony Warrior twisted wildly, breaking away. His face had been cut deeply, but he was alive.

The Redguard rolled to the left, suddenly getting his sword back, but he turned to a dual-wielding, Beserking Orc.

Garzog was wild, uncontrolled, deadly. But the Warrior held him off, even with one sword. It was the fastest, most intense, most shocking minute and a half of combat Garzog had ever seen.

The Beserker rage began to wear off and Garzog staggered back. The Warrior had the advantage now. Soon, Garzog was standing on a rocky ledge, too steep for snow.

Beneath him was a drop of eighty or more feet, down to the earth. It would be a quick death, Garzog supposed. Quick.

The Warrior tried to shove him off. But Garzog wasn't done yet. He suddenly grabbed the man by the throat, dropping the dagger but keeping the sword, and pulled him close.

The pair didn't seem to move for nearly ten seconds. Every sudden push was so well matched, so small, that it wouldn't register to the human eye.

But Garzog had the advantage. He shoved the Warrior around, threw him down and kicked him in the wounded side suddenly.

The Warrior fell, clutching to the edge with his fingers. His sword tumbled away beneath, shattering on the stones. Garzog stood over him. He had won.

The Warrior pulled himself up, holding onto the edge of the cliff with his forearms. Garzog looked down at the Redguard, desperately clutching.

Then the Last Dragonborn, Ysmir, Garzog Gro-Gaferd, stabbed the Ebony Warrior in the shoulder, straight down. The sword cut through everything. It severed two arteries in the heart, split the lung, opened the stomach and cut apart the intestine.

And the Warrior still held on. His head struggled up, looking Garzog in the eye.

"At last," he groaned, blood beginning to trickle from his mouth. "Sovngarde."

Garzog pulled his blade straight upwards and the Warrior let out a low, dull cry of pain. Garzog fell to his knees, his wounds taking their toll.

And the Ebony Warrior fell eighty feet, his body shattering on the rocks below.

The Last Dragonborn clutched at his stomach, his lifeblood slipping away. He couldn't stop looking at the ruin of the Warrior. He had landed on his side, so it looked like he was sleeping. But there was a pool of blood growing around him. The lack of a helm meant his head had smashed onto the ground. A yellow liquid was pooling there, mingling with the blood from the body.

Garzog fell away from the edge, clutching his wounded stomach. Shaking, he took off the gauntlets, tugging at the fingers and undoing the clasps until his dark green hands, the right one slowly reddening from the blood dripping down his wounded arm, were free.

Garzog buried his fingers in the snow. The sharpness kept him alert. But it was only temporary. Garzog's leg was partially healed due Garzog's magic, but the muscle still ached. The huge Orc was struggling to his feet with it.

Garzog stripped his armour. Soon, he was nearly naked, a pair of ripped trousers and a matted shirt all that he was wearing. The cold nipped and tore at his flesh and the Dragonborn stumbled towards the top of the mountain. It was beginning to snow. Garzog collapsed onto his back. The blood immediately began to form a red patch on the cold, frozen ground, but the Orc didn't have the power to heal the stomach wound it came from.

Death came down from the moors surrounding him. He could feel the Daedra fighting for him, deciding who would have him. Malacath and Sheogorath fought hardest. At least, he thought they were. He saw all sorts of shapes in the swirling snow. He heard things in the wind, too. A roar of a dragon. A howl of a wolf. Crying of a woman.

Garzog knew these sounds. The sound of Paathurnax as he fell, cast down from the Throat of the World to die. The howling of the werewolf that had once controlled him, driven mad from the sharp biting of the arrows. And his sister, Garza, and her sobs once they found Kraveth, the dead Orcess with two spears pinning her to the wall and mutilated almost beyond recognition.

Garzog, the last of the Dragonborn, the Hero of Skyrim, died.

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Hey guys! First story I've ever done, the end of my Dragonborn's story. Hope you enjoyed it, feel free to review!


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